is always a great start something posing with just enough muscle to attract a reader as you may know we poets only get a few quick...

“this” being such a long list this poem would be a deadly bore thinning out my bog’s black taro plants now that requires a special...

is not the raucousness of a football game the murmurs of a tennis nail-biter or drums of a soccer match the real Sunday is the snores of...

a hot skin breeze waterfall cooled in my chair under the tipuana tree the black hole of a nap pulls me in this half-baked poem will be...

haven’t we all shot BB guns and air pistols out our eyes occasionally or something semi-automatic and rarely anything shoulder-fired or...

for me the oldest ones have dropped the crispness of black and white turned to gray shapes that drift through fog faces distorted ...

hovering over the hot cereal steam licks my glasses the article’s depressing words retreat through a squint of mist when it clears an ant...

I need a blue drink to get me up and running a warm cup of sky

it is when night arrives and not one daylight moment has moved me not a single warm memory that would linger after dinner and spend the...

the wind shifts bucking from slow to fast haltingly to think of the words and catch the breath to say it’s sorry now for what’s soon...

March’s mulberries the taste of an angel’s kiss and small sins stain lips